Revolution's Prince
by Samri
Summary: EnjolrasGrantaire. Told from the latter's point of view, beginning a bit before the fall of the barricade and continuing until it would be rediculous to do so. Rated R for mild sexual situations and violence.


Revolution Prince  
  
By: Samri Disclaimer: Grantaire, Enjolras, and the rest of the boys belong to Victor Hugo. Musichetta too, and any others you might recognize. They're not mine; I wish they were.  
  
"Marcelin, you're crushing my arm."  
  
The pile of sheets that hid the great student revolutionary Enjolras stirred beside me. When he didn't move, I pushed him. He groaned, and I saw him poke his fair head out from under the blankets.  
  
"Marcelin," I prompted, and he rolled over onto his stomach, turning his face to the wall, not to mention freeing my arm. In the dim morning light, I could see him breathing, his broad shoulders moving up and down as he did so. I smiled and ran my fingers through his thick blonde hair. I loved the mornings for just this reason. Before he was awake fully, when the sun was just peeking over the horizon, he was mine. Before Patria kindled the fire in his heart each day, and before I found my way into a bottle of wine or two, I could just lie here and love him.  
  
In the midst of his dreamlike state, Enjolras sighed, and I moved closer to him. I found myself sliding my arm around the small of his back and across his side to grip his hip. With my free hand, I brushed his hair away and kissed up his neck, biting playfully once or twice. He moaned, softly in response and shifted towards me. I glanced out the grimy window; the sun was already on its way to its place in the sky.  
  
"Marcelin," I whispered again, my lips just brushing against his ear. The muscles in his shoulders flexed. "It's late. We have to go."  
  
He moaned in protest, turning over to face me. "No."  
  
"Marcelin."  
  
"Please, Sebastian." Goddamn him. I couldn't say no to his ice blue eyes. With a reluctant smile, I pulled the blanket over my body and turned him over.  
  
At the height of his orgasm, Marcelin was incredible. From my covered spot under the sheets at his hips, I could see his chest heaving, fingers gripping whatever he could reach. His eyes closed tight and his eyebrows knit together. A small smile could be found upon his open lips, when he wasn't biting them in attempt to keep quiet. His every breath was a desperate moan, and I delighted particularly in the way he reached down and ran his fingers through my hair.  
  
When it was over, Apollo closed his eyes and lay still, while I rose from the bed to fetch a small cloth. When I returned, his eyes were open halfway, and his lips were turned up in a deliciously satisfied grin. I sat next to him, placed a kiss on his cheek, and wiped his forehead. After a moment, he sighed quietly and I knew it was alright to leave the bed. Had it been night, we would have lain together for hours, staring at the ceiling and quietly talking. But it was nearly ten now, and he was due at the Café Musain for a meeting. Yes, he. Not I; I was never really needed anywhere. But the others couldn't function without him.  
  
I was standing in our sad excuse for a parlor, staring out the window when he came out. His long hair had been brushed to a shine and tied back. A red vest framed a white shirt and black pants. He was busy at the moment tying a red ribbon around his bicep: a symbol of the Les Amis de l'ABC. His eyes held their usual aloofness, but he crossed the room and curled his arm around my waist, kissing me passionately.  
  
"Thank you," he murmured, burying his face in my hair. I smiled and closed my eyes, enjoying the warmth of his embrace for a fleeting moment. Before I knew it, he had gone, leaving me alone again.  
  
When I arrived at the Café Musain an hour or so later, after paying a visit to a lady friend of mine, I found the setting in the back room to be the same as it always was. Marius was pining away in a corner opposite mine. L'aigle and Joly were holding hands and talking to Jehan, who was badly dressed as usual. Courfeyrac was watching Enjolras and Combeferre with earnest. The latter two students were engaged in a bitter disagreement over some philosopher or other.Typical day in the life of the Les Amis. Oh yes, and I was drunk.  
  
Had we been anyone but who we were, Enjolras and I would have found each other in our arms within moments. But he had insisted on keeping us a secret, and although I didn't agree, I let him have his way.  
  
"Bonjour, Firebrand!" I cried out as I neared. Yes, I was a little more drunk than I had planned. "What are Our Fearless Leader and his second-in- command bickering over today?"  
  
"I really wish you'd go crawl back into whatever pit you came out of, Grantaire. Leave me alone. Allez-vous-en"  
  
Yes, that was Enjolras: the same man who had been moaning my name a few hours before. It was interesting to see him change so quickly like this. He did it every day. Never a kind word in public. I never let him know how much it hurt me, but he understood to a certain degree. When the others had gone home, and the moon was high in the sky, he would come to me and take me in his arms, coating me with sweet kisses and coaxing me into tolerance with gentle words.  
  
"'Bastian, mon cher, forgive me.Please.I could never tell them.they wouldn't understand. They wouldn't understand what we have, they could never."  
  
And I believed him, every time.  
  
That day was particularly stressful for Marcelin. Late at night, on my way home, I saw a light from outside the window of the Café. Sighing a little, I entered and made my way to the back room, where I knew he would be seated.  
  
His face was buried in his long hands. Strands of hair were falling out of his ponytail, and he was moving his shoulder like it hurt him. I came up behind him and began to knead his shoulders. He moaned involuntarily.  
  
"Sebastian." He sounded lost.  
  
"Hush, Marcelin. Let me take you home."  
  
He nodded his assent, and I pulled him to his feet, taking his hand. He let me walk with him all the way home; nobody walked these streets this late. When we entered our apartment, I led him to the bedroom and watched as he sprawled out on his back, eyes fixed on a point in space. I smiled sat him back up, my hands going to his shoulders again. He leaned forward, hanging his head and heaving a sigh. I rubbed harder.  
  
"You've had a long day," I commented. It was happening more and more: the day of action was coming, I could tell.  
  
When his shoulders were loose and I had heard him yawn a few times, I guided him back into the mattress and looked down on him with a smile. He saw me staring and raised one eyebrow. He was expressive like that. He didn't need words to let you know what he was feeling. He just chose to use them. He was good at it, too.  
  
"You're beautiful, you know?" I leaned down and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. His questioning expression turned to a satisfied smile. The poor boy was absolutely exhausted. His pale skin held a grey undertone and he was bordering on looking sick. Quite honestly, I had been planning to spend the night doing anything but merely sitting with him, but I let him sleep. They needed him more than I did.  
  
As he slept, and I stroked his hair, I thought about what would happen if we did tell the others. And why shouldn't we? Joly and L'aigle did. It wouldn't be so bad.  
  
After a few moments, I knew. They looked to him for support, and in their eyes, he needed to be infallible. The idea that he thought about something else even once during the day was preposterous, let alone the fact that it was myself he chose to dwell upon. They simply wouldn't believe it. Not to mention the fact that I know Combeferre would be insanely jealous. They all would, in some way or another. They loved him.  
  
There was a boy at school, Francois LeFabre, who absolutely hated Marcelin for what he stood for. They were always at each other's throats. One day, we were all in the library when he had pulled out a verse he had written in attempt to mock my Demi-God. He had called him "the would-be virgin martyr" and went on to criticize that aspect of him. Yes, it was true. At twenty- two years of age, Marcelin was still a virgin. But I planned to change that. We had spoken on it a few days before, lying in each other's arms in the dark one night.  
  
"Marcelin?" I had asked quietly, deep in thought.  
  
"Mm...Yes?"  
  
"You're a virgin."  
  
"I am," he had replied.  
  
"Have you ever thought about.?"  
  
"Yes," he admitted, breaking through my sentence. Good thing too, I wasn't really sure what to say.  
  
"I want to make love to you." Way to be blunt. I never really had a way with words. There was a pause, and my heart slammed against my breast.  
  
"Someday," was all he said. And I fell asleep, contented. 


End file.
